A Song of Death and Glory
by Painthedark
Summary: A song about death and glory, a song about how the kings may raise and fall. A song about men, wolves, stags and lions. Sit around the fire, and listen to the song about betrayal and ruin. { Story about Game of Thrones with Hetalia's characters and natures. }
1. Antonio Baratheon

**.Antonio Baratheon.**

« –– And I think we should mantain our positions. After all we are more numerous than them, better equipped and- » The sentence, probably pronounced by one of the little Tarly brothers, was rather vain in the dull buzz of that – too little and too full – hall. As the Lord of Highgarden kept going on boasting about the great values of that solarium, right next to him, Antonio was really bored about that.  
Seated on an uncomfortable chair Antonio, pretty absent-minded, looked at his empty globet, replacing the golden of the cup inlaid with small roses in a simple heap of color, like Francis' face, which was too smiling to be recognised by the Baratheon young man.  
Damn, how much had he drunk? He did not even remember, but the big purple stain on his golden doublet surely had something to do– as the Berwald Stark's icy gaze seemed to suggest.  
He tried to lift up the cup and smile very warmly at him, but the result was not the one expected by Antonio Baratheon, who then forced himself to go back, with his bleary green eyes, to the Tyrell man, still ranting in his flowing golden hair. A very animated discussion had to take place, but actually all those noicy voices and frantic hands distracted him from the search of his precious wine, which- oh, there it was!  
Reaching out the hand to grab the green painted handle was probably the most difficult move made by Antonio during all the evening and, maybe, during al the previous month, and the one before. And considering how that meeting was going on, everything could only get worse: no solution, no agreement. Many voices rised up from that table -noble voices, of course-, but nothing was really about to change.  
Was there something able to break the deadlock? If it had been him, and he even yelled that at the proud but kind Francis Tyrell in a face to face discussion, he would have left immediately – even if only armed of his great halberd – to meet /him/ and smash his head off, to make him suffer just as he had hurt her.  
His fiancée, the only woman he had dared to look at, Bella Stark. The cold man's sister, who – despite the layers of honor sewn on him – always managed to tell him straight what he was thinking.  
Why that night should be different than the others? Luckily there was wine, that excellent wine from Highgarden so generously bestowed by Francis Tyrell, in a pale and foolish attempt to make that alliance even more sealed, because it standed on- what, exactly? Money people said, many others said on the will to get rid a mad king, and others blamed and believed at the charisma of that man who was still drinking. The crowned stag was his sigil, but could the stag get drunk?  
« –– We might even give up! I mean- there is nothing wrong and we could have Gil's forgiveness- »  
A small voice, a reedy one, but never before the twin Tyrell, even if held hostage, shut up so suddenly. Feliciano's brown eyes lifted up enough to meet the fury of the man who had just slammed the finely decorated jug on the white tablecloth. The red stain became larger and larger, a real shame, but even the rest was red. Just the idea of granting forgiveness to the man who had taken away all his life remained out of the question and not even a silly little flower could somehow make him change his mind; and everyone, in the room, fell silent.  
Not even a fly could fly by and if on one hand there was the Stark's icy silence, on the other hand the absence of the Lannister's voice was worthy of note. Then, it was up to Arthur to break the doldrums, to lay his eyes on the Baratheon ready to fight, like a furious stag which wants to deal with an affront bigger than him. « We will not allow it. » The Lannister's glacial voice was barely heard from who was supposed to lead all of them, but who preferred to remain with his eyes cast down until every trace of anger would dissipate in the bottom of his glass.  
One more sip, one more.  
« I will kill him, I will kill them all. »  
And they all nodded.

**.The End.**


	2. Arthur Lannister

**.Arthur Lannister.**

There is no mud on the granite, neither after some heavy rains which could filter in the cervices of the rock, 'till falling deep into the too high, too impenetrable and too hard rock, which cannot even be split in two, There was not any mud beneath the horses hooves, the proud head bowed under the weight of the water falling down from the sky; each color blended into the next one, upon the column of men who rose towards the impregnable Casterly Rock, all except red.  
The only color capable to stand out in the most terrible storms too, darkening to become the vermilion of the shed blood. And, actually, from above, those knights and foot soldiers seemed more a column of blood than men; there was no satisfaction in not being able to distinguish the gold embroided lion from anywhere, engraved as rampant animal even in the armor of the most basic infantry, on the flesh ready to be slaughtered.

The mighty wind shook the solarium curtains, which snapped against the columns placed at their side with the same sound of a whip, but – despite anything – the chair and the body placed opposite the huge dark table, along with a glass of _red_ wine remained motionless, as if they were not touched at all, except by inner turmoil. Arthur Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, was granite indeed: wine had not been touched and the shadows danced on the accentuaded cheekbones of his sharp face, following the direction of the wind which moved the flames of the candles, the fireplace and the lamps.  
The bony hands, crossed on a crumpled letter, gave no sign of life as well as his chest which barely rose and lowered below the heavy crimson brocade doublet, _no broach to stop a non-existent cloak._

How long had it been since he had taken off that broach hand-shaped and had it left in front of those burning red eyes, which had followed him step by step until out the door?  
A long time, too long; he still felt the weight of the heavy necklace made with many small clasped hands, he still felt the disgrace on his skin. The shame of a rejection which Arthur's green eyes had not been able to forget, and the son's letter showed it a lot. Leaving that psycho, watching him while burning alone in his own illness, realizing how the Targaryens could destroy themselves after refusing the Lannister help, the Lannister minting, the Lannister themselves.  
Arthur's mouth froze in a grin, remembering how the king had preferred staying with the kingdom of Dome, seeking an alliance which would not have helped at all. He had been stupid? No, he had been insane, because everyone knew him that way. Take the side of the strongest, however, was a clever design, because he knew Antonio Baratheon had the chance to crush the Targaryens due to his burning hatred; he knew that the alliance with the powers of the North would work.

The Lannisters always pay their debts, and Arthur would have paid very soon his own debt to Gilbert Targaryen. The chair scraped the floor as the body of the Lord of Casterly Rock moved slowly back, fiercely tightening the letter in his right fist. That fool- was he so scared of Antonio to be able to set fire to the city? He really had believed he was so much invulnerable, so precious for the Seven Kingdom to put in danger the very heart of that realm which danced on the wire?  
The answer was closely to being _yes_, and anyone who was present at the meeting two days before knew it. He had read it in the steaming eyes of Antonio Baratheon, in the silence of Berwald Stark, in the increasing anger of Lucas Greyjoy, too far from his long ships and too similar to a statue, in his violet eyes and that absent expression of his.  
The necessary steps brought him in front of the fireplace, in which he dropped carelessely the letter sent by his son. He watched it burn in every single limb; flames probably reflected in his as cold as ice eyes, in his golden and leonine hair.  
He ignored the tolling of a fist against the door, he even ignored the fact that the rain had stopped on Casterly Rock, busy to see the wax of the seal of the Royal Guard casting away.

« A Lannister always pays his debts. » He promised to the wind, pulling the right corner of his thin lips up. A lion ready to pounce on a prey which could considered herself already dead.

« You can come in. »

**.The End.**


End file.
